


lama sabachthani

by asynchrony



Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: avengerkink, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Tony!Whump, bruce and tony could be bfs or just bros but either way this hurts, you will need slash goggles to see the shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asynchrony/pseuds/asynchrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a last-ditch attempt to capture the Hulk, General Ross surprises Bruce and Tony while they are at a scientific convention.</p><p>Tony hides Bruce away and tries to stall Ross until help arrives, but Ross promises he'll hurt Tony if Bruce doesn't turn himself in.</p><p>Bruce stays where he is, and Ross delivers on that promise in all the ways Bruce hoped he wouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lama sabachthani

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first avengerkink fill (and piece of fanfiction), so it's not in my usual style. The original prompt and fill can be found here: http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11065.html?thread=24268601#t24268601
> 
> The violence and non-con are written in my usual reserved way, but may still be triggering.

Tony buttons up his shirt, then his jacket, in the elevator. “How do I look?”  
“I’d really feel better if you were in the suit, you know.”  
“This is a suit. And it’s the type of suit that matters. You know that if I was suited up they’d take that as aggression. This,” Tony says, gesturing at his outfit with one hand as he tugs at his tie with the other, “is implied aggression.” He grins, but Bruce doesn’t feel any better.  
“Let’s get you up in the vents. You’ll be able to watch safely from there, and he’ll figure I hid you in Malibu or something. You’ve got a comm, right?”  
“Yeah. What if I, ah.”  
“The other guy? You’ll be fine. You have more control than that, and he does too. He knows this is life or death for both of you.”

Bruce can’t help cringing at that. Tony softens, putting a hand on his back apologetically.  
“I’m sorry, but it really is. You know you can’t let him-” He stops, leaving the unnecessary unsaid. Frowns. “Oh, Bruce, and. He might get nasty with me, make threats about ruining me if I don’t hand you over. Tell the big guy he can’t get all protective, okay? I can handle myself in there, and the others’ll be here soon. When it comes to politics, _this_ suit is my armor.”  


And then he’s gone, all too quickly, and Bruce is making his way through the vents, muffling sneezes despite the dust mask, wondering how Barton does it. He stops when the little vent-GPS-thing Tony gave him vibrates in his pocket, letting him know he’s there. Peering through the vents, he can see Tony stride down the hall below him. It settles him a little, but not much.

Ross walks in and the other guy flies into a rage at the sight of him, slamming his fists against the wall of their mind. Bruce, by contrast, is ridiculously still, suddenly aware of the movement of his every breath. Terrified that breathing wrong will give him away. He fights to calm his breathing as quietly as he can, each shuddering exhale making him cringe and involuntarily hold his breath again, the panic sour as it rises to the roof of his mouth. It takes him a long while to center himself enough, casting a mental hand out wildly for all the meditation techniques he’d ever heard of, before he feels ready- no, not ready, he’ll never be ready, but at least capable of - focusing on the figures a dozen feet below him, on the white noise of Tony Stark turning on his charm because his life depends on it. The absent noise, now that he thinks about it-

 

-and he sees that Ross has a gun to Tony’s head and the little bit of composure he’d gathered flees again. He’s got a - oh, that’s a wireless microphone, what is he doing, and then he speaks and it rings in Bruce’s ears thrice, once from the comm and then again from the speakers mounted in the ceiling, how did he get access to the speaker system, oh wait, loaded gun, right - and he’s smiling as he looks up at the ceiling, at Bruce, and though he knows he can’t see him he’s already moving away from the vent, pressing himself against the all-too-flimsy aluminium before he realizes it. 

“Bruuuuce Banner.” Ross draws out his name and he curls in further on himself, the cramped space suddenly a vast, echoing cavern.  
“I have... reason to think Mr. Stark here is bluffing when he says you’re out of town. For one, you were here all of twenty minutes ago and you weren’t in any of the cars that’s left since then.”

It’s so cold. Dread pools in the bottom of Bruce’s stomach. Ross goes on.

“So... let’s play a game, shall we?” He chuckles. “I’ll attempt to... persuade Mr. Stark to see the error of his ways, and even if he doesn’t, ah, feel convinced, I’m sure you will.”

Oh. So this is what it is. 

 

Bruce wants to give in already, anything to stop the sickly-sweet voice permeating the air around him, but he knows Ross well enough to know that it’s not just his life he’d be risking, but that of whoever he decided to toy with next. And who was to say, he realizes with a shudder, that he’d let Tony go once Bruce was sedated? He grits his teeth and clamps his hands over his ears. The long haul it is, then.

 

Nothing can brace him enough for the way the slap rings out, sharp and loud.

“I’ve hit him,” Ross says. “Across the face, like a whore.”  
Tony laughs. “You can’t be serious- oof” and he’s clearly taken a blow to the stomach.

“I’m not going to dignify him by touching him any more, Banner. You hear me? I’ll let my men have at him. If you don’t change your mind, that is, of course.”  
The silence that follows seems like an eternity, long enough for Bruce to falter and bolster his resolve again and again.

Ross exhales loudly. “Well, I guess that’s a no.”  


 

And then- no. No no no no no. He repeats it in his head, the sound blurring into meaningless nonsense as he tries to block out the heavy, purposeful footsteps, the loud impacts with flesh, the huge crash after a moment of silence that he knows is Tony’s body colliding with the chairs on the other side of the room, the way each and every one of the blows raining down draws an involuntary, pained whimper after that, the way he can still hear Tony’s rattling breath when everything falls silent periodically and Ross narrates exactly how they’ve hurt him, his tenor bland and pleasant as if he were describing breakfast foods. He wants to hurl, wants to let the other guy beat Ross to a pulp even though he knows they’ve got darts that’ll stop him, wants to be anywhere but here, anyone but him, nothing at all.

Then Tony, the fool, has to go and be _Tony_ , spitting on the floor and saying “You think this is anything compared to flying a nuke into outer fucking space?” and oh, he’s really done it now, and the way Ross names each bone flawlessly before the snap makes him feel like he’s strapped to a lab table again, feeling the sharp pain with each snap that punctuates the crackling static as if it were him on that floor, as if Tony’s restrained hisses and occasional bone-chilling howls of pain are tearing from his own throat. He’s crying now, the tears running silently down his face and neck, throat thick with bile and phlegm and rage and the other guy demanding an out, trembling as much as he dares to, begging to every deity he can think of that the others will arrive soon. He can’t see how this can get any worse.

He’s jinxed it by thinking that, of course.

 

* * *

 

“Stand down,” Ross orders, and Bruce feels sick before he can process the possibility of the silence being a good thing. Then he hears “Gag him,” and that possibility’s out the window. 

He very nearly loses control when the next command turns out to be “Fuck him”.

 

* * *

 

Bruce doesn’t know how long he spends whispering Sanskrit prayers to himself, nails creating bloody half-moons where they’re clenched into the meat of his palms, drowning in the incessant soundtrack of Ross narrating and flesh slapping obscenely against flesh before the man currently gasping out his release _gurgles_ and Ross is cut short in a scream. It takes a full thirty seconds of sudden noise unfolding below him before he understands that the others have arrived; another twenty before he realizes that he’s too numb to feel elation or any sort of relief at all. It’s not long after that before it’s quiet, completely quiet.

Clint yells his name and for a moment he has no idea where he is, then he remembers and _oh_. He shuffles around, eyeing the way he came, then knocks out the vent below him and throws himself through it instead. He lands in Steve’s arms. He sees Tony before he can turn away, and Tony sees him too.

“Hey, good job hanging on-” Tony rasps, “the security cameras- he’ll be locked away for sure-” and he dissolves into coughing and why is he congratulating Bruce when he’s been so badly beaten he can’t move any of his limbs and his definitely-very-expensive suit is soaked through with blood and Steve lowers Bruce to his feet and Tony’s pants are still around his ankles, revealing purpling bruising and more crimson puddling around him and _is that semen_ and Bruce hits the floor too, retching his will to live onto the marble floor, watching the SHIELD medics carry Tony away as the world swims behind a new film of tears.


End file.
